Recovery
by Narniaqueen1300
Summary: 26 year old Peter has a problem with alcohol and just lost his job because of it. When Edmund returns from studying abroad and finds his brother's life a complete mess, can he save him from what he has become?
1. Chapter 1

The apartment was a mess. The garbage hadn't been taken out in days, and the counter top was so crowded that adding one more glass would have certainly caused some dishes to fall. A wooden desk sat in the corner, its natural almond color completely covered by scribbled-on papers and manilla folders. A feather pen lay across a stack of documents, and a jar of black ink was on it's side, it's contents spilling out.

The wooden chair that presumably went with the desk sat near it, a white cotton shirt and blazer draped across it's back. A black leather briefcase sat beside it on the ground, with the initials _P.P_. embossed in gold calligraphy on the side. Bottles were scattered all around the floor, some broken, others still intact. A smoky haze of nicotine and alcohol filled the room, making what would be considered to most unlivable conditions, except for the inhabitant that resided in it now.

Laying across the twin sized bed in the furthest right corner of the room was a 26 year old man. He wore dark brown pants with suspenders that hung loosely to the sides and off-white stockings. His sandy-blonde hair, which had grown just a bit too long over his ears, was messy and unkept.

Groaning, he turned over to his side and blinked his eyes open. The daylight that streamed in through the windows made his head throb. He propped himself up with his elbow and half-conciously reached for the bottle on his nightstand. After a few sips, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and yawned, shaking his head. What a long night…

The antique clock on the bookshelf chimed with it's usual, cheerful ring that perfectly opposed Peter's mood this morning. At first, he thought nothing of it, his mind still in a haze from last night. Then, the ringing persisted.

 _No! It can't be 8:00 already._

He had overslept. Again.

Springing off the bed, he rushed across the room, searching for his white collared shirt. Where had he put it? Peter cursed under his breath as he hit the side of his leg on the desk, and then nearly stumbled into the chair beside it.

There it was.

In less than a minute, Peter slipped his shirt and blazer on. He looked at himself in the small mirror on the wall for a brief inspection and noticed a red stain on the hem of his sleeve. Damnit…He'd just have to keep his jacket on today. Snatching up his briefcase, Peter headed out the door, slamming it behind him and hoping he would have enough time to catch the next bus.

Peter entered Benett & Richardson Publishing headquarters head pounding and out of breath. The bus had been gone by the time he arrived at the station and so he'd had to run the two miles it was from his condo to work. Shoving open the glass doors that led into the lobby, he made a sharp right and ran up the four flights of stairs it was to his office as fast as he could. Once at the top, he paused briefly to catch his breath before entering the room.

No sooner had he set his bag down at his work station did he hear an all too familiar voice.

"He's here now, Mr. Richardson. Just arrived," Robert Pennington blurted out, sounding more cheerful than he should about the fact that Peter had been late. Ever since joining in January, the man had made it his mission to get on Richardson's good side, whatever the cost, and even though Peter had been at the company for much longer than him, the lad incessantly looked for ways to single him out. Whether it was the younger boy's ambition or just plain jealously, Peter didn't care, and was not in the mood to deal with his antics this morning.

"Is he now? Send him in," the voice of Thomas Richardson said from down the hall.

"Boss wants to see you," Robert repeated to Peter.

Peter closed his eyes and smiled fakley, clapping his hand on the boy's shoulder. "Thanks Robert."

"Hey Peter," Rosemary whispered from a few desks over. Her blonde ringlets were pulled back with a red bow that matched the shade of her lipstick. "Don't let him intimidate you."

As Peter entered the office, Richardson gestured to one of the two leather seats across from his desk.

"Sit down, Pevensie."

He stroked his black and pepper-gray mustache agitatedly.

Peter took a seat, waiting for the admonishment that was sure to follow.

"Some tea?" Richardson asked, pouring himself a cup from the kettle on the desk.

"No, thank you."

After taking a couple sips, Richardson shifted his heavy form and set the cup down. "Peter, I'm going to be quite frank with you. This is the third time you've been late this week. I simply can't afford to have everyone in my office held up by your tardiness. It costs me money, and it costs the company money."

"I'm sorry Sir, it wont happen again, I promise."

"But honestly if tardiness was the only problem here, I might be willing to overlook it because you have been such a valuable asset to the company. All of our readers admired your work, and we have always received such positive feedback when we have published your articles in the paper. Sales were soaring, and you have been our most reliable editor and writer."

Peter watched as his hand reached for the cup and he sipped another gulp of tea.

"But your work lately has been…oh, how should I word this? Deplorable," he shook his head. "It's simply unreadable material. I don't know how or where you got these ideas from, but they're not representational of what the company stands for at all. And the formatting…good god, man." He yanked a paper out of his filing drawer and shoved it on the desk in front of Peter. "Explain this. How do you support these ideas on the war? And what is this word?" He pointed to the page and held up his spectacles for effect. "Un…uncarti.."

"Uncharitable."

"Uncharitable. Thats not the word I'm reading on the page. In fact, I can scarcely tell what I'm reading here. And thats only one of the many mistakes I found in last week's issue. We cant afford mistakes like that, Pevensie!"

Peter shifted. There was nothing he could say in defense. He had been out of it most of last week when he had written the paper and knew that it had turned out at best, sub-par.

"I've been on the phone all morning with the other editing companies across London trying to explain why we released an issue with such biased opinions on the war, and I've been able to come up with nothing to say that doesn't make the company look bad." He rose to his feet and put his hand on the wall, hanging his head. "Is there nothing you can say in your defense, Pevensie?"

Peter's head hurt and fought the nauseous feeling in his stomach. "I'm sorry Sir, I just wasn't thinking."

"Yes, yes, well I simply cannot afford anymore of your tardiness and 'not thinking'. It's such a shame too, as you have been such a solid writer for the company over the past 4 years. I used to be such a fan of your work. Your charismatic personality weaved into the writing you did, making for excellent pieces," he paced back and forth as he spoke. "But the work I've seen from you lately has been lacking in everything I hired you for." He sat back down in his chair and crossed his arms over his large body. His expression, though determined, hid a twinge of remorse. He sighed, "I wish I didn't have to say this Peter, I really do, but I've made the difficult decision to terminate your employment. I've hired on young Pennington to take your place starting tomorrow morning."

Peter felt like he had been punched in the stomach. Though he had anticipated that this was the reason he was called in, when the words were spoken aloud, it didn't make them any easier to hear. He swallowed hard, unsure what to say or what even to feel. Almost four years he had been here. Four years of a successful career in the field that he had worked so hard at. Four years…for nothing.

Richardson produced another document from his filing cabinet. "I'll just need you to sign here…" He dipped a feather pen into the gold ink vile and offered it to Peter, who remained silent as he took it. He paused briefly as his finger brushed the older man's hand and looked him in the eyes.

"Just right here on the bottom line," Richardson pointed to the paper uncomfortably. Peter swiftly scratched his signature on the sheet, the sound of the quill against wood echoing throughout the silent room. When finished, he dropped the pen back on the desk and slid the paper towards his now former boss.

"I'm sorry, Pevensie. Believe me, if there was any other way…" he sighed. "I hope you can bring that magic you once possessed back to your writing again someday."

Peter said nothing as he rose and turned towards the door. He felt as though all eyes were staring at him as he walked down the hallway back towards his office. Once there, the dead silence in the room spoke what words didn't need to; everyone had heard what was said from down the hall.

Robert stood in the corner, sifting through papers and only glanced up at Peter briefly before continuing what he was doing without a word. Rosemary sat at her desk, pounding away at her typewriter faster than usual and didn't look up.

Grabbing his briefcase off his seat, Peter gathered up his pens and various other miscellaneous materials off his desk that he had brought in over the years. He shoved them into his bag. He just wanted to get out of here. Once he had everything, Peter turned around and started to walk away.

A small tug on the back of his shirt caused him to turn around. Rosemary held out a folded piece of paper to him, smiling sadly. He took it, shoving it in his pocket, and walked out the door without looking back.


	2. Chapter 2

Once home, Peter turned the squeaky handle on his front door and entered the dismal place in which he lived. He kicked aside some wadded up paper on the ground and nearly tripped as he walked over to the kitchen. The place was a mess. He didn't care. He didn't care about anything anymore.

He felt a sharp panging in his head and closed his eyes. When was his last drink?

He took a quick glance around the counter top searching for any sign of an unopened bottle. Finding none, he cursed out loud. He stumbled towards the cupboards and flung them open, one after the other, searching for any sort of leftover booze he could get his hands on.

Nothing.

He'd have to go over to the bar a few blocks down. He spent so much of his time there anyway that it felt almost like a second home.

He felt his pockets for any money and then remembered that he had just lost his job and he should be cautious about spending anything right now. He could have sworn he had an extra wad of cash stashed away somewhere though. Leaning back against the counter, he crossed his arms and tried to think hard, all the while fighting the nauseous feeling in his stomach.

Where had he put it?

Where had he….

 _Vodka._

No, he had to think. The safe. In the back closet. Maybe it was there.

Stumbling across the room, Peter kicked away any objects that blocked his path. With clammy hands, he opened the closet door and kneeled down to the small metal box that hid behind his suits.

His hands trembled as he held the round metal lock. What was the combination?

His mind clouded over and he found himself staring blankly at the object in front of him.

Think. Just think…

His hands shook.

 _Vodka_.

Think.

Try to remember.

 _It was the professor…something about his house…_

The house address from that one summer? Yes. That had to be it. It was…it had an eight in it…

 _8194_ …he turned the dial. No.

 _8156? 8357? 8901?_ No no no. He had to remember.

 _8656 Cherry Tree lane._ He turned the dial a fifth time and his heart nearly skipped a beat when he heard the satisfying sound of a click go off.

Thank god.

He swung the door open roughly, and to his satisfaction found a roll of about 12 or so $20 bills hidden behind various other items- a gold watch from his father before he passed, . Shoving the cash into his pocket, he rose and went out the front door once again as the frosty air bit his skin.

Once inside the bar, Peter made his way to his usual seat on the stool at the counter. Old Steven Winchester approached him. He was a thin, lanky man with greying red hair and a beard.

"What can I git for ye t'day, Pevensie?" His Irish accent was as chipper as always.

"Just the usual, Steve, thanks."

Steven paused and looked at him with a slight frown. "Yer here awful early…it only be round twelve o'clock noon, I reckon. You sure yer alright?"

Peter clasped his trembling hands tightly and felt his heart racing. "I'm fine, just fine Steven, thank you."

The man looked less than convinced, but shrugged and dropped the conversation. He turned around and poured Peter his drink.

"Here ye go. Vodka with two splashes of cranberry juice," he set it down and leaned against the counter, arms folded. He waited patiently and watched as Peter downed the entire glass in a couple minutes like a man dying of thirst.

As soon as he took the first sip, Peter felt a wave of calm pass through his body. Once he finished, he pushed the glass in front of him.

"I'll take another."

Steven frowned. "You sure yer-"

"Oh bloody hell Steven, would it be easier if I bought the whole damn bottle from you instead?" Peter spit out. He needed his drink, not these agonizing questions.

Steven put his hands up in mock surrender. "A'right, a'right! Now there's no need to git angry my friend. Wait just a moment now."

After four drinks Peter sighed and felt relaxed for the first time all day. His hands weren't shaking anymore. He felt as though he were in a cloud and closing his eyes, he leaned forward and lay his head on the counter in his arms. Ah, rest. At last….

A gentle hand on his shoulder shook him out of his sleep.

"Pet'ar…Pet'ar…" Steven's voice said. Peter squinted his eyes open and found the man peering down at him. "Ye've been here for half the day. Don't ye think ye'd better go home now?"

Wait, where was he? Oh yes…half the day?

"Whattimeisit?" Peter muttered.

"Oh, round 6 o'clock."

Already that late? Peter slid his body down from the barstool and reached in his pocket. He took out one of the twenties and laid it on the counter.

"Here."

"Ooh, this is too much my friend."

"No, really its fine. Keep it all," he slurred. Reaching in his pocket again, he pulled out another twenty. "And I'll take two bottles for the road."

Once he was home again, Peter drank half of one of the bottles and finally collapsed on his bed, blacking out.


	3. Chapter 3

(2 months later) Edmund breathed in deeply the fresh scent of the English countryside as he stepped off the train. He glanced at his pocket watch. An hour early, too.

He was home. Luggage in hand, he thanked the conductor and took a moment to process it all. It had been two years since he had left to study abroad in America, and though the experience had been more than he ever had expected, he had missed home profusely. He hadn't seen his family in what felt like an eternity and he was anxious to get home.

As he hurried along the pathway to the nearest bus station, he wondered to himself; how was his family? He and Lucy had written many letters, and Susan had sent a few as well, though not as many as his youngest sister. Still, while the letters had provided comfort, nothing would replace seeing their faces once again.

The whole bus ride home, he thought and wondered about everyone and everything he had missed. When the bus finally dropped him off about five minutes from his house, he hopped off and walked as fast as he could while still holding his bags. He was almost there.

When he rounded the corner and saw his home, he paused for a moment. It looked as though nothing had changed. A small curl of smoke rose out of the chimney, telling him that his family was home. The bricks on the face of the house stood where they always had, save a few new chips here and there. Other than that, nothing seemed different than how he had remembered it, and the realization comforted him.

He walked up the concrete steps and rapped on the door. When he heard the rustling and creaking of footsteps coming down the stairs from inside, he smiled.

The door flung open and before he knew what was happening, he was swept up in a big bear hug.

"Edmund!"

"Lucy! Oh, hey Lu!" he said into her hair.

After a minute or so she released him. "You're home early! We didn't expect you until 3:00."

"The train got in sooner than I expected. Oh it's good to see you, Lucy! You must have grown though. You're practically taller than me," he laughed.

"Probably," she laughed. "Come in, come in! Susan, Mum!"

The two came bustling into the room and enveloped him with hugs. "Edmund!" Helen said, wrapping her arms around him. Edmund was struck by how thin and light she felt and frowned slightly. As she pulled away, he noted that her face too was pale and drawn, though expertly covered with makeup. Susan looked by far the most radiant of the whole crowd, and when she hugged him, he noticed something else. "I haven't seen that before, Su!" he said with a smirk as he nodded to the glistening jewel on her ring finger.

Susan laughed. "It is. Last night, in fact!"

"Susan's getting married!"

As the evening progressed, Edmund settled into his old room and enjoyed dinner with his family as they chatted about old times, current events, and all that had happened to him in America. But throughout the entire meal, Edmund couldn't help but notice the empty seat across from him. He avoided bringing it up for a good hour, but then finally decided to confront the elephant in the room head on.

"And where's Peter been these days?"

As soon as he said it, he immediately sensed some of the gayety and joy deflate from the room. Helen had a concerned expression on her face, but covered it up with a smile as she said, "He's been working very hard at his writing job in London."

Oh yes. "Is he still at that same one…Benett and Richardson I think it was?"

"Yes. He writes to us often enough. Well, he did for a while at least. His letters seem to be fewer and fewer these days."

"He came home last Christmas. We all have meaning to visit him. It's just difficult because he never seems to have the time," Susan put in.

"I'm sure he's just busy with his work," Helen said. "In his last letter, he said that he was writing and editing for them now. The newspaper business can be difficult," she laughed.

A stilted laugh. Everything his family said sounded natural enough, and if it were any other occasion, Edmund wouldn't have thought anything more of it. But it was the way they spoke that concerned him. The pained expressions on their faces. And Edmund knew these were all simply well-constructed sentences they had formed to try and act as though everything was fine. It wasn't. Edmund knew now for certain. He could feel it.

"You said the last time Peter visited was Christmas?" he asked.

Lucy smiled sadly. "Yes."

Silence hung in the room for a few seconds. Susan then interjected. "Enough of that. Tell us more about America, Edmund. Did you meet anyone?"

Edmund laughed. "You wish."

He would go pay a visit to Peter tomorrow and find out once and for all what was going on.

Edmund went up the two staircases and pulled out the folded piece up paper from his pocket. 4205 was the apartment number. Once arrived, he rapped his knuckles on the door. He needed to find out for himself what was going on with Peter. Surely it couldn't be as bad as the others made out. It wasn't like his older brother to not reply to mail and telephone calls. He knocked again. Maybe he wasn't home right now.

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a white envelope peeking out from under the mat. Reaching down, he picked it up and read the label. It was addressed to Peter, from the apartment complex. After a moments hesitation, curiosity got the better of him and he opened it. He let out a long sigh as his eyes skimmed over the page.

 _Regret to inform…eviction notice…overdue bills… have until the 28th…_

Something was definitely going on. Edmund folded the letter back up and tucked it away in his coat. Whatever it was that was happening with Peter, Edmund was sure that he didn't need to be shown this. Not yet.

Stepping forward, he decided to test out the handle. To his surprise, it turned easily and the door swung open. The sight of the apartment interior made Edmund step back. Surely this couldn't be Peter's home…he must have gotten the wrong address. He double checked the note. This was it.

Taking one step inside, Edmund nearly tripped over a bottle on the ground. The state of the room was disastrous. His eyes glanced over the place, noting the broken glass, crumpled papers, and spilled ink vile that seemed to run down the side of the desk. As he got closer, he noticed that the ink was stained into the wood, a sign that the accident had happened a while ago and no one had bothered to clean it up.

Out of the corner of his eye, Edmund saw a half torn scrap of paper on the ground by the desk. He picked it up and scanned it briefly. He could make out a few sentences from around the various ink blots on the page.

 _The White Witch had covered all of Narnia in a spellbound winter….two sons of adam and two daughters of eve were prophesied…two kindly beavers led them to safety…_

Edmund furrowed his brow and set the paper down carefully. Where was his brother? Edmund sank down wearily in the chair by the desk. Should he go out and look for him? Where would he even start?

Perhaps he was at his work still. It was past six, but Edmund decided that it couldn't hurt to check.

Entering the Bennett & Richardson headquarters, Edmund tried to remember the floor Peter had said he worked on. Third?

As he stepped into the hallway on the third floor, a man was just turning the key and locking up.

"Can I help you, Sir? We're just closing up for the day."

"I apologize, I wasn't aware. I'm looking for a Peter Pevensie and was wondering if he worked on this floor?"

The man had a curious look for a moment, then paused the jingling of his keys. "Pevensie you say? Are you a friend of his?"

"I'm his brother, Edmund."

"Brother. He mentioned he had a brother. Studied abroad in America for a couple years, eh?"

"Yes, Sir. I just came back yesterday as a matter of fact," Edmund noted the obvious avoidance of his original question. "Has Peter gone home yet for the day?"

"He didn't tell you, did he? Ah, he wouldn't. Not him. Always kept to himself mostly."

Edmund frowned. "Tell me what?"

"We had to let him go. Near two months ago."

Edmund paled."Let him go? Why?"

The man, whom Edmund now concluded must be Richardson, leaned back against the wall, arms crossed. He didn't speak for a moment and then looked straight at Edmund. "It was a mess, laddie. A bloody mess. We're still cleaning it up to this day," he sighed heavily. "Your brother was a fine writer. For a while, anyways. For years he was my best employee. Until about seven or so months ago. Something shifted. Something changed. I could see it in his eyes. I could read it in the tone of his writing. He wasn't the same man I had hired. Every morning he showed up, his body bore the ill effects of heavy drinking from the previous night. I knew, though he never said a word. But what should I care? I reasoned. A man's own business is his own. But when it started affecting his writing, that's when I had to draw the line."

Edmund shook his head. He couldn't be talking about his brother. Not Peter.

"I hope you understand. I just couldn't risk jeopardizing the company's reputation on account of one man. One man, who, probably wont make a turn around. Leastwise not for a long while." He lowered his voice. "I've seen his lot before. Most times once they're this far in the hole, they cant come out."

"Then you don't know Peter at all," Edmund narrowed his eyes.

"I'm sorry again, laddie. Truly I am. If there's anything I can do…"

"I think you've done enough." He had to get out of here. He had to find Peter. Turning around, he didn't even bother to look back as he rushed down the three flights of stairs and out the doors.


	4. Chapter 4

Edmund decided that the best course of action was to go back and wait at Peter's apartment, as agonizing as that would be. Once inside, he took a seat on the chair once more and rubbed his aching temples. Where was he?

The hours wore on, and Edmund found the ticking of the clock in the corner to be maddening against the otherwise dead silent room. For every tick of the second hand, Peter could be deeper and deeper in trouble. And Edmund couldn't do a bloody thing about it.

It was 9:00 now, and Edmund had just started unintentionally drifting off to sleep when he heard the sound of the door knob turning. He immediately stood to his feet, but wished he hadn't a second later when he saw the man standing in the doorway.

Peter stumbled inside, grabbing the door jam for support, seemingly unaware of Edmund standing before him. He coughed a few times and then shoved the door shut behind him. That's when he looked up.

He wore a white torn shirt and looked as though he hadn't had a haircut in weeks. Contrary to his normal clean-shaven look, he now sported facial hair that was also messy and unkept. But what Edmund noticed most was his eyes. Bloodshot, exhausted, and sorrowful. But even underneath all that, Edmund could see the piercing gaze that he remembered so well as his brother's eyes met his own. It was a long minute before anyone said a word. Finally, Edmund broke the silence.

"Peter…" he shook his head trying to lighten the mood. "You look awful."

Peter just stood there, gaze unchanging. Edmund stepped forward and embraced him, but Peter stood stiffly and didn't move as Edmund removed his arms and backed up a step.

He finally spoke. "You shouldn't have come."

"What are you talking about, you old bloke? I've only just returned yesterday from across the world and that's how you greet me?" he brokenly laughed. Peter swallowed hard.

"Go home, Edmund. I want you to go home. Now," his words slurred together slightly.

Edmund didn't move. "No. I'm not leaving you."

Peter rubbed his face and squinted his eyes hard, sighing. "Please. Just…go."

"No."

Peter stumbled aside, taking a few steps towards his bed. He waved his hand back at Edmund flippantly. "Fine then. Whadeveryouwant."

Edmund watched him for a moment as he took a seat on his bed, leaned back, then closed his eyes. Edmund went over and looked down at him. He shook him. "Peter? Peter!" he didn't wake up as he lay passed out on the bed.

Edmund sighed deeply. He knew Peter would be bad, but not this bad. He was almost unrecognizable. His once radiant skin was now pale white with hints of yellow. His eyes were sunken in, and he was considerably thinner. Edmund took one of his brother's hands in his own and felt his rough, cracking knuckles that were scabbing over. He stroked them gently before laying Peter's hand back down on the bed. "You old fool…" he muttered softly as he glanced at the floor and found a quilt. He lifted it up in a heap and spread it across the bed, covering Peter. He adjusted the pillows so that Peter's head was laying straight and then proceeded to pull up the chair next to the bed and sit down.

By Aslan, what had happened to his brother? He was a completely different person than the one Edmund had said goodbye to on the train two years ago. And the thought of High King Peter in Narnia seemed even more foreign still.

Edmund stood up and looked around. The place was unlivable. He bent down and picked up a vodka bottle. Every last drop was gone. He went around the room and picked up all the glasses and bottles and threw them in a bag that he set outside the front door. Regardless of if Peter was staying here or not, the place still needed to be cleaned up, and he would rather see to that now than when Peter awoke.

Edmund spent the night cleaning, scrubbing, organizing and folding. He swept, wiped down the counter tops, and cleared out all the piles of rubbish and paper scraps. By around four in the morning, Edmund concluded that the apartment was as good as it was going to get and after opening a window for fresh air, he dozed off in the wooden chair beside Peter's bed.

Peter blinked his eyes open, squinting them as a stream of sunlight came through the open window. Where was he? Last night had been a blur, and he vaguely remembered someone showing up to his house…Edmund?

In front of him, his youngest brother slept, propped up in the chair. Hadn't he told him to go home?

Peter groaned as a wave of nausea swept through his body. Shit….not again. Shaking his head, he threw the covers off of himself and ran to the bathroom, doubling over at the toilet as he threw up. Once finished, he flushed and stood shakily to his feet.

He splashed some water on his face and dried his hands on the towel before going back out to the living room. For the first time he noticed that it was spotless-not even one item out of place. It didn't even look like his house.

Where were his bottles?

Heart racing, Peter scanned the room frantically.

"What are you looking for?" Edmund's voice said from across the room. He stood, arms crossed, as he stared at Peter.

Peter stopped, mid action and turned to him. "Where are they?"

His brother stepped closer, arms still crossed and said nothing.

Peter's face turned red as he stormed towards him. "Where are they?!"

Edmund shook his head slowly.

At that moment, Peter flew at him, grabbing him by his shirt collar and shoving him against the wall. He shouted as he shook Edmund. "Dammit Edmund, where did you hide them? Where?!"

Panicking, Edmund yanked himself free and threw a punch at his brother, which sunk him to the ground. He seethed in anger.

"What happened to you, Peter?! How did you do this to yourself?" he shouted. "I don't even know who you are anymore!"

Peter put his hand on his bleeding lip. "You didn't have to come! I never asked you to!"

"I came because I care about you! Mum and the girls are worried sick about you, wondering why you haven't returned any of their letters or calls. Wondering why you don't speak to them anymore."

"I'll find them myself, then," he said, completely ignoring Edmund's statement. Peter stood and paced around the room like a caged animal. He started flinging cupboards open and slamming them.

Edmund followed him. "That's enough. Stop. Stop!" he grabbed Peter's shoulders and swung him around to face him. Peter paused.

"You have a problem, Peter. You need help. Please, let me get you the help you need."

Peter broke free from Edmund's grasp and grasped the back of a barstool with his trembling hands. His knuckles turned white. A peculiar look crossed his face. "I don't know what you're talking about, _little brother_ , but I don't have a problem. I think you're blowing this way out of proportion."

"No, I'm not."

Defeated, Peter decided to use another tactic.

Peter trembled as he looked up at Edmund, tears in his eyes. "Edmund…please," he whispered brokenly now. "Please help me."

Breathless, Edmund looked down at him, locking eyes. He had never felt so helpless in his life, nor ignorant.

"I will help you, Peter. But not in the way you want me to," he put his hand on Peter's shoulder. "You need to see a doctor. Let me take you to one."

Edmund had never seen a more hopeless look in Peter's eyes before. "Alright, I'll go, I will, just… _please,_ where are they?"

Even though he knew it was wrong, he knew that if he didn't say anything, Peter would tear the place apart until he found what he was looking for. Letting out a heavy sigh, he said, "They're in the upper cupboard."

No sooner had he uttered the words, Peter stood and rushed into the kitchen. Still in a daze, Edmund walked to the other side of the room and leaned slowly against the wall, watching his brother as he opened one of the bottles and didn't even bother pouring it into a glass before devouring the contents.

In that moment, Edmund came to the harsh realization that he had been denying since he arrived, but he knew in his heart now to be true; his brother was an addict. And if he didn't get him the help he needed, he would surely die.


	5. Chapter 5

On the drive back from the doctor's office, Peter didn't say a word. Edmund gripped the steering wheel hard and kept his eyes forward.

"It's not going to be easy. You know that."

No response.

"But-I believe you can do it if you set your mind to it, Peter," Edmund noticed how his brother tucked his trembling hands in his lap, clenching them.

Once they pulled into the parking lot of the apartments, Edmund turned off the vehicle and pulled an envelope from his coat pocket. "This is the receipt from the last monthly payment here. I've taken the liberty of signing all the paperwork, and we're free to leave whenever we want."

Peter turned to him. "Leave? Where, why?"

"I've decided that in light of what the doctor said, it will be much easier for both of us if we go through this together someplace out of town. Away from the busyness and distraction of the city. So," he paused and removed the keys from the ignition. "I've found a place for us to stay out in the countryside."

Peter clenched his jaw. He didn't want to leave. But then, he didn't really care either at this point. Nothing was holding him here anymore, and frankly, he was too exhausted to care.

"Alright then. When are we going?"

"I got us two train tickets for tomorrow afternoon."

The loud noises of the train station blared in Peter's ears. Every sound seemed amplified, and after standing for so long, Peter finally decided to take a seat on the bench and wait until the train pulled in. Edmund sat next to him, carrying both suitcases.

"You doing alright?"

"Fine," Peter muttered. "Just wish they'd hurry up."

"Yeah," Edmund sighed. "It's kind of strange being back here, isn't it?"

"Yes. The last time I came here was that summer when we all went to the professor's house."

Edmund nodded as the train roared in. Peter clasped his hands over his ears. "Oh god, does it need to be so loud?"

Clapping him on the shoulder, Edmund helped him up and the two boarded the train once it came to a halt.

On the train itself, Peter dosed in and out of sleep, opening his eyes every so often to look out the window. For the most part though, he kept his eyes shut because the movement made his head spin. When he did briefly glance out though, he noticed familiar green hills and farms. Places he hadn't seen in a long time…

His eyes sprung open. "Ed, where are we going?"

"8656 Cherry Tree Lane."

 _8656…wait, that was…_ "The Professor's house?"

"You guessed it."

"Wait….why?" he sat up.

"No reason in particular."

"Edmund, I don't want to go there."

"Well we cant exactly turn the train around."

"You didn't even ask me!"

"You're right, I didn't because you agreed to listen to me, at least for this trip. Just…trust me, alright?"

Peter stared at the train wall in silence and his head throbbed. This was the last place he needed to be right now. He glanced down at his hands, which still hadn't stopped shaking. He pulled the leather gloves tighter that covered his cracking knuckles.

"Fine then. Whatever you want."

It didn't matter. All Peter wanted was just to lay down and sleep for eternity.

The train dropped them off at the same place it had over ten years ago- the small wooden platform in the middle of the green hills. The path which Mrs. Macready had picked them up from in the carriage was overgrown with weeds and bramble.

Peter took his bag from Edmund. "Well, here we are."

"No carriage this time. We better start walking," Edmund said as he started off on the would be trail.

The two men walked in silence, taking in the scene from their past. When they finally approached the mansion, Peter stopped, out of breath. "I have to rest Edmund. Just…hold on a minute." He reached in his coat and slipped out a small flask and gulped down some of it. He had to stop the shaking.

"Peter, what is-"

"It's nothing. It's…my last one, okay?"

Edmund crossed his arms and sighed. "Come on," he picked up both his and Peter's bags and headed towards the house.

The mansion itself appeared to be for the most part unchanged. Some ivy had grown over the large iron doors and some new bushes had been planted, but everything else remained perfectly manicured and exactly the way the boys had remembered it.

Edmund knocked on the door and Peter leaned against the wall, exhausted. Soon, a maid answered the door.

"Good day sirs. Can I help you?"

"Yes, I'm Edmund Pevensie, and this is my brother, Peter."

"Oh yes, the professor said you'd be arriving sometime today. As he probabley told you, he will be going out for a holiday at the seaside, so he's leaving the house to you. Here's the key, and we'll all be leaving first thing tomorrow morning."

"Yes, thank you," Edmund said, taking it.

"Come inside, and dinner will be served shortly," she gestured for them to step inside and then took their bags. "Feel free to make yourselves at home. You can choose which room you'd like to stay in."

Edmund thanked her again and the two made their way down the long hallways and settled on a larger room on the far side of the house which was furnished with two beds, two night tables, and a large persian rug at the center.

"This will do nicely I think," Edmund said, setting down his suitcase beside the bed closest to the door.

Peter nodded in agreement and sunk down onto the other bed.

"Dinner will be served soon, we should probably get ready," Edmund said as he removed some of his items and put them in the dresser drawers.

"I dont think I'm going to go down. I'd rather stay here and rest," Peter said, closing his eyes. His head throbbed and he wished to god he hadn't drank the last of his flask earlier.

Edmund paused, studying him. "But I'm sure the professor will want to see you."

"I know…just tell him I don't feel well. Please, Ed?"

Edmund sighed. "Well, alright. Try and get some sleep then. I'll be back in a little while."

Edmund waited until he was sure Peter was asleep to go downstairs, and when he saw the professor, he immediately embraced him into a hug.

"Edmund!" the professor exclaimed, giving him a clap on the back. "Its so good to see you again. It's been a long time."

Edmund laughed. "Too long. I never thought we'd be back here."

"And where is that brother of yours, Peter?"

"Ah, he was very tired from the long trip so he decided to stay in and get some rest."

"I see."

The two enjoyed a delicious meal of roast chicken, dumplings, and mashed potatoes with cranberry pie for dessert. They spoke of old times, as well as what they had both been doing since they last saw each other. At the end of the meal, the two rose and went into the professor's study. After chatting some more, Edmund stood and decided he should probably head back upstairs to check on Peter.

"And Professor…I want to thank you again for letting us borrow the house. These next few weeks wont be easy."

The professor put his hand on Edmund's shoulder affectionately. "Of course, my boy. It does a body good to get out of the city and into the fresh, country air."

"Yes."

"But Edmund, just one question. Why here?"

Edmund took a few steps towards the window and looked out. After a moment, he spoke. "Once Peter gets through his physical recovery, I have a feeling that some things will surface, things from his past. And though he hasn't said a word of it, I know that a big part of the reason that this all happened to him was because of having to leave…Narnia," he turned back around. "And you're house is the closest we can get to there anymore. I don't believe he can ever fully heal unless he learns how to let that go and move on."

Silence hung in the room for a minute, and then the professor spoke. "You're a wise man, Edmund. And Peter is very fortunate to have you looking out for him."

"Thank you, Sir."

"I sincerely hope from the bottom of my heart that everything works out for both of you. It hurts me too to know Peter's like this."

Edmund nodded and the two said goodnight. As he walked back up the stairs and down the hallway towards his room, he took a deep breath. _Oh Aslan, if you can hear me somehow, be with my brother. I know it's not going to be easy…_


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Ahhhh! So to begin it has been faaarr too long since I updated this story, but it is one that is very dear to me and so I am happy to get back onto a better updating schedule. As for Peter…well, lets just say it might get a whole lot worse before it gets better. But stick with it and we'll** **see what happens! Also, I greatly appreciate any and all feedback 3 Thank you!**

Sleep did not come easily for Peter that night. After Edmund went down to dinner, he dozed off for a bit and then was awoken by a sharp pain in his head. He muffled a curse into his pillow and then threw the blankets off himself. He wiped his sweaty brow. He needed some air.

Swinging open the double doors in the room, he stepped out onto the balcony that overlooked the entire backyard landscape. He stepped forward and leaned on the railing, glancing at the clear night sky. The stars twinkled brightly and for a brief moment, Peter felt like he was back in Narnia. Pausing, he struggled to savor the sweetness of a memory long past. Finally, He blinked and tried to remove the thought of it from his mind. He wasn't there anymore, he was here. Stuck in this hell.

Oh god…

A sharp stab of pain in Peter's head reminded him of how long it had been since he had his last drink. Four, maybe five hours?

"Shit…" he muttered under his breath and raked his hands through his hair. He had to think.

Would the professor have any drinks stashed away in the cellar or pantry? It wasn't likely after everything Edmund had probably told him, but Peter decided he had to check nonetheless. There was no possible way he would survive here for god knows how long with nothing. Once Edmund was asleep, Peter would go downstairs and check. For the time being, he climbed back into bed and tried, for all accounts, to look as normal as he could so Edmund wouldn't suspect anything when he came back.

The minutes wore on agonizingly for Peter as he pretended to be asleep and waited for Edmund to come back. When he finally heard the door creak open at half past ten, he breathed a silent sigh of relief. His brother climbed into his own bed, and about fifteen minutes later, Peter heard the steady, rhythmic breathing that meant he had fallen asleep.

Slowly and quietly, Peter rose from his bed, unraveling the covers from himself. Giving one last glance over his shoulder just to be certain Edmund was asleep, Peter cracked the door open and slipped out into the hallway unnoticed.

Maybe this hadn't been the best time to try and raid the pantry after all, as he remembered that the professor and the household staff were still asleep in their own rooms. Would someone hear him? They had better not. He continued down the long dark halls and down a couple of flights of stairs. As he passed each room, his mind was brought back to he and his siblings first day here so many years ago. The day it had all begun…It had been raining outside and everyone was in a foul mood, except Lucy. He could almost hear her voice in the distance…

 _We could play hide and seek!_

 _But we're already having so much fun._

 _Come on Peter, please! Pretty please?_

 _One…two…three…four…_

Five. Six. When would these stairs end? Peter's head ached more and more, forcing him to pause and lean against the wall for a brief moment to catch his breath. By the time Peter had started walking again, all traces of memories from that day were erased and he was overtaken entirely with a need for his drink. It didn't have to be Vodka, anything would do. _Wine, rum, whiskey, goddammit, let there be_ something.

He finally reached the kitchen and breathed a sigh of relief when he saw that no one was there. Wasting no time, he quickly went to the cellar and scoured all the cabinets. Frantically, he searched every shelf, every nook, every cranny. He moved jars, plates and dishes. Finally, a sinking feeling shook him to his core. There was nothing. Nothing.

"No," he whispered. "No!"

For the first time in his life, Peter felt absolutely powerless. Everything he needed, the world around him, his own survival, was completely out of his control. He looked down at his trembling hands, which seemed to be disconnected from his body, as they shook violently. He couldn't stop it. Oh god, he couldn't stop it.

 _Damn you, Edmund! Damn you! Why did you have to hide everything? Why?!_

"You son of a bitch…bastard…fool…" He wept. His entire body now shaking, Peter sunk down against a cabinet and leaned against it on the floor. He put his face in his hands and drew his knees up against his chest like a frightened boy.

He stayed like that for many hours, drifting in and out of sleep as the night continued on.

What Peter didn't see was that around two in the morning, Professor Kirk stirred and decided he needed a glass of water. He was having a difficult time falling asleep, with last-minute preparations for the trip going through his mind. Drawing his robe around him, he slipped into the kitchen and at first noticed nothing amiss. Then his eyes went to the floor and he saw, curled up into a ball, Peter Pevensie, who had seemingly fallen asleep. Stooping down, the Professor took a closer look at the young man's face. He looked like a completely different person compared to the one he had met all those years ago. Long gone was the radiance of youth that had glowed upon his face, and replacing it were hardened, ever-deepening lines of despair. This was a man in agony, in pain. _My poor boy…oh my son…_

Wiping a tear from his cheek, the Professor drew in a breath and hoisted Peter's limp body into his arms. The young man didn't even stir as the Professor carried him all the way back into the room he was sharing with his brother.

In the morning, Peter blinked his eyes open, and when he found he was back in his own bed, he wondered if last night hadn't just been a nightmare after all. Maybe he had never left the room. Maybe he had dreamed it all. But he couldn't seem to erase in his mind the memory of someone carrying him with arms of warmth and love back to his room.


End file.
